Seizing the Day
by IamPsipsina
Summary: 'Something like that...' Story unfolds immediately after episode 2x15 Cooler (because we've all been waiting so patiently). A different kind of POV piece. I hope you enjoy. Px
1. You Linger

You're laying there, hardly breathing. Every now and then, when the dioxide has built up, you let out a small, laden sigh. The ceiling has 18 small circular marks on it. The digital clock by your bedside table is protesting 5.05am in garish red. Soon it will change its stance to 5.06am. 7 trucks have passed your window. It's letting in air a little too cool for comfort but you have grown accustomed to the unpleasant shiver that ripples through your muscles every few minutes. Your furrowed brow and distant stare up into those pale marks above you draw you in like constellations.

Your mind, whirring with every thought of the universe somehow manages to focus on nothing. As if in defence you have shut down, unable to even take off your shoes.

One arm is propped under your head, the modest and round muscle of your bicep pillowing your tired head. The other lays across your stomach where the pad of your index finger slowly rubs back and forth against the knuckle of your thumb.

More movement in the house stirs you. A couple laughing perhaps. You're unsure. There are 3 of them in the apartment. Your lover is unrest.

Your ma always used to say '_don't do something unless you can handle the consequences_'. Oh, mom...

You should call her more.

Another deep, slow and quiet sigh. It moves your stomach, hot beneath your palm; up and then down. You feel its firmness hidden somewhere beneath you. You recall her words. With a little effort you could be something extraordinary. But effort lusts after exposure. You have wanted so desperately to make something of yourself for too long.

You tilt your head back in self-admonishment, tossing your arm onto the empty mattress. The enemy is inner me. Well done, fucking Tolstoy.

You squeeze your eyes closed and your face tenses. You turn your head towards the door.

_Jess._

You bite down on your lower lip, your mouth puckering with the effort.

You think back to the early hours of the morning- no- even earlier. Night, maybe.

Don't lock me in here with her, you think. Please don't incarcerate us with no way of avoiding this too-complex tension. You've done well to regain your composure over the last few months- to make an invisible joke of your attraction; an unspoken game. "_Kiss, Kiss, Kiss,_" they yell, naively. You remember asking yourself how she could be so cool about it- and feeling disappointed when she flippantly suggested you just get on with it, like it was nothing. Like it wasn't awkward and strange and unfair.

You feel like a teenager in all the negative senses the word can possess. Exposed, insecure, embarrassed. Embarrassed. Always embarrassed. Of your job, of your life, of your mood, your room. Your body. You have so much power and strength inside you. Such masculinity and depth foiled by your own, fragile, sad ego. Why can you never show her _that_? Or at least, anybody, somebody else. You wonder if she sees it at all, sees _you, _your truthmasked clumsily like a light behind a wall.

She must know now. You close your eyes and relive the heat of her breasts and taut stomach against your chest. Your entire torso seems to throb as you remember half lifting her, almost pinning her to the wall behind. But she had wrapped her arms around you, hadn't she... almost expectantly. Breath shaking with adrenaline and arousal, you instinctively (yes, it was nothing but instinct) placed your thigh between her own trembling legs, your foreheads pressing together in such telling intimacy. Her hands are on your neck, your hips. One more, your body had begged. No please, just another, your heart had followed. Her lips pressed back into yours, gratefully; once, twice, again. You wouldn't look at her as you left. What would you have seen? It's unimportant.

'_I meant something like that._'

You hold in the frustration as you close your door, less forcibly than you would have predicted.

The memory ends, fluttering to nothing like a projectionist's tape. You had been so steady, your movements deft and powerful: gentle but expressive. A moment unplanned but over-imagined. _Not like this_. Natural.

Your features soften as you look back up to the ceiling. It's the one thing in a long time you've done right. Your timing, your stealth, your power. You don't feel an apology looming in your throat, nor awkwardness or angst. At least not yet. It's creeping like a horizon, hot orange, but you want to hold onto this evening. Unsure how to proceed.

Tomorrow will be the same as any other day because for you, nothing has changed. Not the the loyalty or admiration, the respect, attraction, affection or intrigue. The friendship. The only thing that seems to have altered is your slow and steady sense of self-respect, of appreciation for acting, for once, in the moment, for not getting in your own way and for being the Nicholas Miller you finally wanted to be. If only for a moment.

It appears you are more attracted to her that you could ever have imagined; it lingers in simultaneous dimensions. Kept separate and distinct, these layers of magnetism seem to have somehow aligned but you don't really care. Guilt will come soon. Regret perhaps. You remember the hot tip her her velvet tongue. Your insides flurry.

You close your eyes and over time, begin to drift away, the swollen kiss of her mouth hovering somewhere above your own. I meant something like that.


	2. You Yield

**Just- thank you. Px**

…...

You're looking down into a bright orange sphere, your chin digging into your palm. Your mom loved to give you orange juice as a kid - she said it looked like sunshine in a glass. You always loved the idea of sucking up the sunshine into you. You used to imagine letting it shine out from you and warm up everyone you met.

You were a sweet kid.

Right now though, you're not feeling so sweet. You swirl the straw around and through in circles, making the liquid dizzy. You hear your name being repeated – you think. It sounds far away. Strange almost.

'Jess?' You peer up to see your boyfriend -why are we always searching for boyfriends?- looking at you quizzically. He has paused for a moment, his mouth open a little. Why is his mouth open? 'Are you OK?' he queries, bemused. 'You're really quiet,' he shovels a bite of waffle into his mouth, 'it's weird,' he teases.

'I'm fine,' a quick reply. 'I'm fine,' you smile, your tone dips a little.

'You sure? You've hardly touched your breakfast...' He's right. You haven't.

'Oh,' you breathe, 'I think I must be a bit hungover,' you squeeze your mouth together and hunch your shoulders. You stretch your arms out in front of you, your tone sounds false. 'True American!' You quietly yell, half- raising your fists in the air.

He studies you for a moment. Unconvinced, he returns to normalcy. You think he's started talking again and you smile and breathe out small laughs, semi-aware of the moment you're sharing.

The truth is you're not fine. You don't know where you are, but 'Fine' is not your current location. Perhaps it was a few junctions back, awkwardly twinned with 'Numb' and 'Dislocated'.

You're thinking of his bedroom. That un-enterable domain that's the color of plaid and dark wood and metal. Of masculinity and of boundaries not crossed, like dark lines on maps.

In particular, you're reliving this morning when you too-casually glanced inside the open door as you passed only to stop and take one step back. And then maybe another. Nick? You called out only in your mind, putting palms to frame as you leant to look inside. The floor... You could see it. Clothes, magazines and other man-flotsam: gone. His bed- it was made; his open curtains displayed bright panels of glass, which were swaying slightly with the breeze. Stacked coffee cups had abandoned their traditional dwelling, while his book shelf was vibrant and ordered.

You frown slightly. You can hear Sam in the shower. You slowly, awkwardly pad to the kitchen. Your lost glances around the apartment earn attention from Daisy and Winston who are eating breakfast at the table. Schmidt stands nursing a coffee cup behind the counter.

You stand there for a moment.

'You OK Jess?' Winston queries. He's frowning slightly.

'Oh- yeah I'm fine. What happened to Holly?'

'Left this morning,' Schmidt replies. 'Frankly -she- was- _exhausted_,' he beams with an open grin, an emphatic side-nod punctuating his words.

'So you keep saying,' Daisy teased, her eyebrow arching playfully as she points her fork at him.

You like Daisy.

So does Winston.

"Oh. Honey,' Schmidt begins, 'You're new here. If you knew of my reputation-'

'Oh, she knows about your reputation,' Winston interjects.

'Oh, _really_,' Schmidt purrs.

'Oh. Really', replies Daisy, knowingly, 'Winston filled me in last night.'

"I bet he did-'

You think they laughed here. This may not have been the exact conversion. You don't really remember. You weren't really listening.

'Hey have you guys seen Nick?' you blurt out suddenly.

'Oh he left early this morning,' Schmidt answers looking over the rim of the mug as he takes a sip. 'Your boy went out at 8am- get this- to go for a run,' he shares, cynically, humorously.

'Guy's insane...' Winston spoons some cereal into his mouth, his eyebrows arched.

'Is he OK?' Daisy asks, adding gently: 'last night was... pretty crazy,'

'Oh-this-is _classic_ Nick Miller-'

'Classic-' Winston repeats looking at her, 'Nick's all about the extremes,'

'Like last year with the tomatoes-'

'-Or when he decided he was going to become an acupuncturist-'

'-Of course there was '_It's Nick Miller Time_'-'

'-And the falconry-' Their words overlapped.

Your odd kind of delirium seems to go unregistered. Unsure of how you got there, you find yourself in the hall as the others continue to talk and eat behind you as if in a soundtrack. Without warning, the front door opens and Nick steps through. He is wearing that burgundy hoodie. His breath is heavy but steady and you can hear music tinnily projecting itself from his earphones. He gleans with hard work as removes them, looking up to find you before him. 'Hi' he says, slightly distracted but (apparently) entirely natural, his eyebrows rising a fraction. You think his lips tensely purse into a very typical kind of half-smile. It's neither real or false. Perhaps yours does too. He instantly moves off. The whole interaction is less that a couple of seconds. 'Yo' he yells behind him, saluting his arm in the air as he flicks through his iPod. The trio greet him back.

'Hey man,' he nods as Sam emerges from your room, his hair damp.

You smile. You should smile here. What is happening to you?

'You ready to go?' he circles his arms around your waist, leaning back slightly to get a better look a you. You notice Nick retreat from his room, towel over shoulder, and head to the bathroom.

'Sure,' you smile up at him as he bends down and places a pleasant kiss on your mouth.

You're snapped from your reverie as you realise your own unfair illusiveness. 'Wait,' you say, your hands high on his shoulders. You lean up and kiss him again. 'Hey,' you smile. Hey.

'See ya-guys' he friendlily calls to the others.

Again, in chorus they reply. You wave at them and let yourself be herded out the door. You glance back to the hall once, but you don't quite register the action.

'Shoot.' Something is beeping back in the cafe. 'Babe, I need to take this,' he apologises with his pager in hand, 'do you mind?'

'No- of course not,' you reply earnestly, softly.

'OK,' he whispers, getting up. He kisses you quickly on the forehead and moves away.

Alone now, you drop into the hard back of your chair and look calmly out the window. Your hands are in your lap; a sea of emerald green.

You glance to your fingers and purse your lips solemnly. For a moment, your eyes squeeze closed but your frown remains.

The whole incident had been like a joke shared long after the moment had passed. That stolen exchange was hidden somewhere between a year's worth of tense conversations and boundaries crossed. There's that word again. A Pandora's Box of male-female tension had been opened. Let us close it. You have felt another man's body lay atop your own since then.

This had been something real, hard and tangible. You shouldn't over-think it. It was just a thing. A silly game. An overspill. An intoxication. You will ignore it. Because you are just friends that are sometimes attracted to each other. No surprise, you suppose. Inevitable, perhaps.

But that's not really the problem, is it? It's not really him you're surprised at. Resentment and frustration are nestled in you somewhere, but their caterwaul doesn't yet reach you over the buzz of your body. You turned your own eyes wide because as soon as he touched you it became exactly what you wanted. How long was this exactly what you wanted him to do? You don't even remember.

He's unknown to you. This is clear now. The man that stole you in the hallway is now a stranger. A new horizon or frontier than spans further than you could see.

The adrenaline in your stomach suddenly dives like Kamikaze flares. You're recalling now how he pulled you to him with such unquestionable authority. How you immediately and unreservedly drew him closer and drank in as much as you could. You let him have you. You gave yourself to him, fully. You tugged at his clothes, pressed your small body to his own- stronger, taller, warmer - and pulled him instinctively (yes, that's a word for it) towards your bed. But it was not empty, was it Jess?

No, you were never expecting his touch to engulf you like such wildfire- to lick at your limbs like unconquerable flames. Your ragged breath echoed with his own - the gentle tip of his tongue stirring waves that assaulted your very nerve endings. Oh, and those two unimaginably intimate small gifts that followed after. One full of declaration, the other of a promise that could not be unmade. His body is still on yours as he utters an answer to your all-too-knowing question.

'I meant something like that'.

His voice is certain. Distant perhaps. Warming. Unrepentant.

His thumb caresses your cheekbone as he steals one more look at your blushing lips, leaving you alone with nothing but the shadow of his aftershave on your skin.

You're finished. Torn. Unzipped. Unnerved. Exposed. Full...

...Empty.

You want shake this all off you like a coat but the deep ache between your thighs and your trembling fingers won't let you misplace this memory. Why can't you slip into another dimension and disappear into places where those 30 seconds don't exist. Or to a place where they're the only thing that do...

'Not like this'.

Just like this.

It was always going to be just like this.


End file.
